tits-up, you bring the beast home and go to your backup plan. You’re good, son. You’re a good systems operator …”
“So what’s the problem, Colonel?” the civilian asked, removing his headset and letting his longish blond hair hang loose in sweaty strands-aha, the guy’s not a friggin’ machine. He does sweat!
“If you say I can fly the B-2A …”
“Sir, give me a few months and I can teach a monkey to fly the Beak,” Jamieson said, unstrapping from his seat and heading for the rear entry hatch to the simulator cab, “but I wouldn’t want to go to war with the son of a bitch. A monkey can drop bombs, work the MDUS, maybe even fly an approach if you give him enough bananas—but he won’t back you up and he won’t make good decisions. I need an MC that will not just run a checklist, but make sound decisions based on tactical doctrine and years of experience in a flying unit. You don’t have it. Sorry.” He turned and headed for the exit, then turned back to the stranger and added, “I’m sure you’re a good aviator and a good student, and with time and training I’m sure you can get the job done. But not now.”
As Jamieson was leaving, he heard the civilian say, “Thank you for the lesson, Colonel.” It was a low, sad voice—but there was a certain cock-sure ring to it, a hint of defiance, perhaps?
Jamieson did not reply. The guy was better than he had let on, Jamieson had to admit. Yeah, decision making was important, but that’s why God had invented aircraft commanders and crew coordination. Jamieson would prefer to have a knowledgeable systems man in the right seat any day over a second-guesser or a self-anointed tactics expert. Jamieson reluctantly admitted that he regretted the Air Force’s decision to put a second pilot in the right seat of the B-2A stealth bomber rather than a pilot-trained navigator or engineer; or, even better, leaving the third seat in and bringing a navigator-engineer-bombardier along. He had criticized the guy for knowing a little about a lot; in fact, the man knew quite a bit about almost everything, and that made him a valuable asset on a bomber crew, no matter what kind of wings he wore—or even if he wore no wings at all.
The door to the cockpit came opened, and the crew chief for The Spirit of Hell met up with Jamieson. “We’re done for the day, chief,” Jamieson said, as he stepped from the cab to the steel platform surrounding the full-motion simulator. “You’re cleared to reset the box after the print-out’s ready.”
“Uh, sir …?”
“Where’s the printout?” Jamieson asked—then he stopped short when he saw the armed guards in the doorway to the simulator room.
“What’s going on, chief?” he snapped. “What in hell are those security guys doing in here?”
“I asked them,” Lieutenant General Terrill Samson said. The big three-star general was in the simulator instructor’s control room, carrying the mission-data printout and a large catalog case with a large combination lock on it. Jesus, Jamieson thought, the guy is huge! How did he ever fit into the cockpit of a military jet trainer? “Thank you, chief. If you’ll excuse us, I need to talk with Colonel Jamieson. Let me know when the maintenance troops arrive, please.” Soon they were alone in the control room.
Jamieson noticed that everyone in the entire simulator bay had departed, except for the guards, who were armed with Uzi submachine guns.
Jamieson was tall, but the commander of Eighth Air Force towered over him. It was a little intimidating even for a guy like Jamieson, who was not easily scared by other men. Tony Jamieson had over four thousand hours’ flying time in a dozen different Air Force combat aircraft, including more than sixty combat sorties over Iraq, and anyone who could beat those numbers got Jamieson’s instant respect and attention. Terrill Samson was such a man. “Hello, General,” Jamieson said to Samson. “What’s with the guards?”
“We’re going to be doing a few modifications to this simulator,” Samson said, “testing out a few new items. It’ll be down for only a day or two; you’ll have to use the second box by itself for the time being. How did it go with our boy?”
“Fair to poor,” Jamieson replied. “He’s knowledgeable and all-book stuff, numbers, some good systems knowledge, not a bad stick—but he doesn’t know tac doctrine and procedures.”
“Could he be a B-2A Combat Crew Training Unit student?” Samson asked. CCTU was the 509th Bomb Wing’s B-2A six-month initial training program. “If so, what stage would he be in?”
“His pilot skills are average, but based on his systems knowledge, I’d say he was a second- or third-stage student, upper level …”
“So you’re saying he’s as good as an average pilot who’s been through about half the CCTU program, Tiger?”
“There are lots of candidates out there with better piloting skills,” Jamieson said quickly, still not wanting to admit that the guy was pretty good for fear of appearing to compromise on his deliberately set lofty standards for B-2A crew members. “He seems to have lost a lot of heavy iron piloting skills.”
“He never was a pilot, Tiger,” Samson said with a smile. “He’s an ex-bomber-navigator, B-52s mostly.”
Jamieson was surprised—no, shocked was the word. The bomber part didn’t surprise him, but Jamieson would’ve bet that the guy had been flying nothing but a desk for years. “Where’d he learn to fly, then?”
“HAWC,” Samson replied, “and that’s classified. Highly classified.”
“HAWC?” Jamieson sputtered. “You’re shitting me … er, sorry, sir, I mean … man, this guy used to fly for HAWC? When? What did he fly?”
Samson closed his eyes, as if the very mention of the word HAWC caused him great physical or mental stress. “Tony, do me a big damned favor and keep your questions to yourself,” Samson said impatiently.
Jamieson did exactly as he was told—he knew as well as Samson what the Department of Defense did to those who breathed a word about its most super-secret research facility. Only the best engineers and fliers got to work at HAWC—even hotshot veteran sticks like Tony Jamieson didn’t dare apply to work there for fear they’d be rejected or that working under such a constant level of strict security would destroy their private lives.
The aircraft and weapons HAWC worked on were classified at the highest levels of national security, and any inquiries or even a casual mention of the place or the organization required a report to the Air Force Office of Special Investigations. Jamieson knew that Samson had to report him to AFOSI—just for having this conversation —and that such a report would change Jamieson’s life forever, because of the level of official scrutiny he’d be under from now on. With all of the recent security breaches rumored to have occurred at HAWC, everyone even remotely involved in the facility would be closely monitored; their public and private lives would no longer be their own, but would be documented and examined by the Department of Defense until death closed the file.
“Excuse me, sir, but there’s a whole lot you’re not telling me,” Jamieson probed. “You say this guy is ex- military, a civilian, but he’s got access to B-2A tech orders, weapons manuals, and he’s riding the sim with the radar on? No person without a special-access clearance has ever seen the radar in operation before—he not only watched it work, but knew how to work it in a combat situation!”
“No more questions, Tiger,” Samson said. “I need to know one thing: would you fly with him, right now, in combat?”
“Not in a million friggin’ years!” Jamieson retorted. “Why should I, sir? I’ve got thirty of the world’s best pilots in my wing, already fully trained and qualified to fly the Beak.
Why should I fly with someone who’s not checked out?”
“I’m not asking you to choose between a mission-ready crew member and him,” Samson urged. “I’m asking you, would you fly with him if-“
“If he was the last man on earth?” Jamieson interjected. He had no idea where this was leading, but it wasn’t good. “He could back me up on most tasks, but … no, sir, I wouldn’t fly with him. It’d be a waste of a good airframe.”
“On today’s sim ride, Tiger, what would have been the chance that he would’ve hit his assigned target?” Samson asked.
Jamieson shrugged. “You saw the results, sir: he hit his assigned targets, so I guess the answer is one hundred percent,” Jamieson admitted. “But I’d give him only a seventy-five percent chance of reaching his target in the first place, and that’s bad, because he could have brought his bomber home and gotten it fixed and taken a one hundred percent plane into combat. What’s his chance of bringing the plane and his crew home with all the malfunctions he let accumulate? Maybe twenty percent, tops. He exercised poor judgment.”
“What if the mission absolutely had to go off on a certain date and time?”
“Use the backup planes,” Jamieson replied. “You need one bomber to take out the target: launch three. Send one home after the last inbound refueling, then send another home just before ingressing Indian country. Fly the best one to the target and bomb the crap out of it.”
